


school stories

by Catheeso



Category: CJMind
Genre: Gen, hehehoho stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:26:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29531247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catheeso/pseuds/Catheeso
Summary: stories i write at school cause schools boring
Relationships: None
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. fire and chaos

The fire god burns bright, brighter than the sun in Chaos’s opinion. They are ever-present in his world, burning through the eons by his side, warm and gentle sometimes and malevolent the next. Fire is fickle, emotional, apathetic to the destruction they cause. The perfect moon to his stars. 

Their fury summons him as they tear through forests, devouring plantlife and animals alike. Nothing is safe from their wrath. Nothing except Chaos. Chaos follows them dutifully, delighted by the unrelenting ruthlessness that his friend causes. Everything is black, burnt and singed. Chaos can still feel himself coming down from the high when Fire mellows out, exhausted from their tantrum.

Some would say they were perfect for each other. Others would say their relationship was toxic. No matter what, though, wherever Fire is, Chaos is soon to follow. 

There are times when Fire burns slow, tired but merciful. Contained. They complain that it feels constricting, but Chaos can see that they feel more peaceful than they usually do. He never knows how to feel about it. 

The times when they’re a wildfire are the times he likes them best. It’s chaotic, no other way to describe it. He feels free when they summon him, accidentally or not. It’s a pure, unfiltered feeling of freedom and joy, watching them blaze their way through forests and cities and homes. 

“You two are the most destructive force I’ve ever seen,” the goddess of animals tells him one day. She never complains, not once, about the animals he and Fire slaughter when on a rampage. Animal is his friend and she, too, can be violent.

What odd friends they make, all of them. Different gods and goddesses from different generations - their domains not even linked. The god of the sea is not friends with the goddess of tsunamis, but rather friends with the love goddess and the luck god. 

The winter goddess is not friends with the spring god or the summer god or the fall goddess, but instead friends with the goddess of stars and the goddess of creativity. 

He is the god of chaos but he is friends not with the god of bloodshed, but with the goddess of animals and the god of fire. 

And they are all friends. They are all one big family as the humans would say. Chaos, Fire, Animal, Sea, Love, Luck, Winter, Stars, and Creativity. Stars from the very first generation and Chaos from the very last. They are not linked in the slightest, not connected. Their paths intercross sometimes, like with him and Fire and Luck and Love, but mostly they choose to hang out with each other because they enjoy each other’s company. A family. Odd, but still a family. 

Fire is one of his favourite companions, though. They’re always warm by his side and they seem to glow when happy. He is not as bright as them and he will never be as bright, it’s just not possible. Chaos is turbulent and sometimes painful. There can be peace in his frenzy, there can be controlled chaos, but it is never satisfying to him. It is never enough for him, no matter how hard he tries. 

Does he try; that is the question. How hard should he, the god of chaos, try to control himself? It is his entire existence, it is his joy and sadness and anger. Chaos is everything to him and he is everything to chaos. He controls it. It controls him. He is the embodiment of chaos. How hard should he try to control himself when the whole point of his life is to cause chaos? 

Nobody else had this double-edged sword he was given, nobody else had this problem. Their domains, if bad, had a light aspect to them. His mother, War, was necessary in life, resolving conflicts that would otherwise go unnoticed. His siblings, Victory and Mercy, were parts of war and good parts, too. People prayed nightly to his siblings.

Nobody prayed to him. 

“It’s a part of you,” Stars said a long time ago, before she retired to join the lights in the night sky, forever dormant, forever asleep. “You cannot control it. I would not call that bad. Is Death bad for doing his job?”

“No, but he also has some good in the world. What do I do good?”

“Why does it matter if you’re good?”

Why does it matter? Why does it matter to him so much whether he was good or bad, whether he was important or not, whether the world could survive without him? 

Does it matter to the other gods and goddesses? Does it matter to his new family or his old family? Does it matter to the humans who worship them? Maybe not. Maybe it only matters to him. 

A lot of questions and not a lot of answers. All he knows is that Fire does not care for this moral dilemma and is quite open to tell him so.

“You think too much,” they say as a wildfire rages behind them, sparked by mortal explosives. It had been burning for a long time and even he felt himself growing weary. Fire seemed unbothered, still as strong as they were when it initially started. 

“I feel that you don’t think enough,” he replies, looking into the flames. The smoke makes his eyes water but he does not blink for fear of missing something. Missing what? His mere presence is doing its job, the animals and humans around panicking. The usually exhilarating sound of screaming grates on his ears. 

“What is there to think about? We exist and do our job,” Fire squints at him, “unless that isn’t enough? Is that not enough for you? Do you want more? You know what happens to deities who try and achieve more than they’re worth.”

“You say that like I’m not worth much.”

“Chaos - you are a fourth-generation god. The Origins would smite you without a second hesitation.”

Chaos stares at the ash falling from the sky. “Maybe I’ll give them a reason to feel hesitation.” 

“What are you thinking?” Fire asks, suddenly intrigued. 

“I think I’m going to make this one hell of a decade.”


	2. mr minecraft

_“Your eyes are beautiful,” his mama told him, grabbing him painfully by the chin and forcing him to look up at her. She did this often nowadays, and her tight grip always made his eyes water slightly. “Your eyes are so beautiful, my child. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”_

_“Mama,” he whispered, “you’re hurting me.”_

_“Too beautiful,” his mama continued, her eyes glazed over. It was like she didn’t even hear him. “They’re too beautiful.”_

_His eyes flickered over to the potion bottle that she held in her other hand, a nasty maroon colour. Why did she have a potion? When did she go to a cleric? She was always with him, she barely left the house._

_“I’m sorry, my child,” she cooed as she lifted the potion up, her hand tightening around his chin._

_“Mama!” he cried out, clawing at her hand. “Mama! Stop, it hurts!”_

_She didn’t listen, though. She didn’t listen until after she had poured the potion of harming into his eyes and his wails were heard all across the village._

_No one came to stop her._

  
  


The boy traced the edge of the blindfold around his face as the enderman next to him hummed a familiar tune. Even after years of practice, he wasn’t quite able to place the words to the lullaby, but it didn’t make the melody any less soothing. 

Sister - his nickname for her - stopped humming when he lowered his hand and gripped his teddy bear tighter in his arms. It had been so long since he had last seen anything, he wondered if the teddy bear was still the same shade of purple. 

“ **What is wrong, Little Brother?** ” Sister asked kindly. Ever since he had started calling her Sister, she had started calling him Little Brother. He thought it was weird because he wasn’t that little anymore. Sure, he was still short compared to other humans his age (not that he remembered how old he was) and he was certainly tiny compared to Sister, but he wasn’t as little as he was when she had found him, crying tearlessly in the field.

“Nothing,” he lied, his voice muffled as he pressed his face into the soft fabric of the stuffed animal. 

“ **I can sense something troubling you** ,” said Sister. A cold hand patted his face gently and he subconsciously shivered. He forgot how cold enderman were sometimes. It wasn’t her fault, though. 

The cold was nice, though. He leaned into her touch. “Just memories.”

“ **Bad ones?** ”

“From my old village.”

“ **Ah.** ”

Sister then said something he didn’t understand and he tilted his head in question. She removed her hand as she repeated it. He found himself missing the freezing touch. 

“ **Again?** ” he asked softly. “ **I...did not understand.** ”

He heard a quiet warble before Sister spoke again. Most likely her talking to herself. 

“ **I said: is your mama worried?** ”

He stilled for a second, hesitating. He remembered the smell of blood, the screams, the limp hands of his mother. He remembered running through the forest, far away from the carnage. He remembered stumbling into Sister’s arms and hearing her warble in concern. 

He remembered his mama dead. 

“Probably not,” he replied at last. 

  
  
  
  


The admin floated in the void between worlds, his tail swishing lazily as he listened to the unintelligible whispers of players across the servers nearby. His focus switched between the servers, listening in on the conversations. 

One player was fighting another in the Jumped World. Three players were getting exiled in Versay. An man with wings just died in his hardcore world. Admins across the universe murmured to each other, their codes instinctually reaching out to communicate. 

He sighed, getting bored of just sitting around. The last world he had been in had kicked him out. Something about his ‘kind’ not being welcome around there. He didn’t know if they were talking about his species or about him being an admin, but he was offended either way. 

It was times like these he found himself missing Sister. Even in the lull between excited moments, she was there to tug him along and hold his hand. She was there to talk to him and get him out of trouble. 

But she wasn’t there anymore. The proof of that being the ender pearl that hung around his neck. 

He had thought about joining a world with a lot of players. Not just calm villagers, but other admins and active people. Maybe some hybrids. It was these calm - too calm - hours that made him wish to reach and join a populated world. 

But there was a tug at the back of his mind that prevented him from doing so. He had never been accepted before, why would he be accepted now? It was a question he knew he couldn’t answer before joining a world, so it went unanswered, but the question lingered and everytime he went too close to a world with a lot of people, he would jerk back and sulk. It was all just a little too much for him. 

So, he started a survival world. In fact, he started a lot of them. It wasn’t hard when it was just him and the land was nice, but if he stayed in one too long he felt sick. The worlds weren’t broken and the coding was right, but it didn’t _feel_ right, not like the world with Sister had. 

Maybe his code knew they weren't his true home and rebelled. Maybe his mind knew they weren’t his true home and rebelled. No matter what, all he knew was that he often drifted in this void, listening to realities he couldn’t be a part of. 

Would his mama be proud of him? Would Sister be proud of him? He pulled his jacket on from where it hung loosely around his elbows and sighed. Maybe if he started another survival world it would be the right one. It would be the correct one. It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it?

It would hurt, his traitorous mind supplied. It would hurt a lot because it wasn’t right. 

Maybe...he could make it open? An open world? Make it like he normally did but allowed people to join. It would be a change if anyone came in and this time he wouldn’t be kicked out because it was his world. 

He perked up and quickly set about creating this new, open world. This one could work. He’d make it work.

Plus, he’s tired of hearing his original world burn from inside the void. 


	3. History Homework

**August 24th, 1914**

The first shots were fired yesterday. It shocked me how loud they were. The “battle” was brief, hesitant. Or maybe it was just me who was hesitant. My hands had shook as I held the gun, watching people fall limp on the ground in front of the trench I was huddled in. The bullets had been fired all too quickly from the British side, the men on my side not faltering when they shot back.

Some of the older soldiers had glanced at me when the noise had stopped, pity in their eyes. Most ignored me, though. I was just another young boy on the battlefield, another face to be lost. It didn’t matter to anyone that I was far younger than I should have been, sixteen when my comrades were twenty. I write sixteen like I am older, like the battle made me older. Instead, I feel younger. I feel more scared than I’ve ever been. 

My older brother had been the one to join the army first. He had sensed the growing tension and was hardly surprised when war broke out. Not even the mention of the assassination phased him. At first, I had admired him like I always had. Now, I am stuck in a dirty trench with water sloshing at my boots. My brother always told me to think before I act and now I regret not listening to him. 

There’s another boy who lied, only a year older than me. His name is Karl. Karl is nice, I suppose. He’s funny, too. I don’t think a boy like Karl should be here. He’s too bright, too happy. My brother told me that war damages optimism and I really hope that isn’t true. Karl is not a flame that deserves to be snuffed out. 

Before the fighting Karl had made loud sounds as if he was trying to simulate the noise of guns firing. I had laughed at the time, but looking back I can’t help but feel sick. The noises Karl had made were nothing compared to the din actual guns made. Death had been a joke. It had been something that seemed so far away, so unreal. But here I am, writing in this old journal, rotting corpses so close. 

Both British and German bodies litter the dry dirt between the trenches. I can feel the Brit’s hatred towards us Germans. But I cannot control the actions of my country. I cannot control the fact that we are allied with Austria-Hungary. I cannot control the fact that Servia chose to assassinate someone important from Austria-Hungary. I cannot control the fact that we may or may not be in the right. 

I can, however, control my own actions. I can control the gun in my hands, the lives at my fingertips. I did not choose to be here in Mons, confined to a trench when I could be at home with my mother and father. But I know that I would’ve hated being at home more than I hate being here, waiting for the day a letter would be delivered to our doorstep saying my older brother had sadly perished in the fighting. Or maybe waiting for ten, twenty years for the chance my brother would walk through the front door again, no letter involved. I could not wait for him. 

So here I am. 

-

**January 9th, 1916**

There is not a lot of snow in Mons. It’s still a bitter cold, harsh winds biting at my exposed skin, but the worry of more water in the trenches and the relief of dry dirt is enough to make me hold my tongue. I’ve seen what trench foot does to people. I’ve seen the dead skin, the pus, and heard the cries of soldiers who didn’t get it amputated in time. How they convulse on the ground as the infection spreads to their heart, how they weep with pain. 

The war has been going for two years now. I’ve only been eighteen for a couple of days, my birthday being the 5th. Karl, who had been keeping track of the dates when I had not, had grabbed me and sang a cheerful song. It reminded me of before the war and even the earlier parts, when Karl had been an unstoppable ray of sunshine, a glimmer of hope. 

That flame of his had been snuffed out fairly quickly, but it was admirable how long he held onto it. Even now, I could see traces of it. My birthday had been one of the few times his smile had lasted more than a brief moment.

New recruits had started coming after we successfully took over the city. This long into the war, I’ve stopped thinking about the morality. About whether Germany is in the right or not. It does me no good on the battlefield. All that matters on the battlefield is whether or not you land the shot. 

Kids are still coming in and joining our ranks. Many of them die. I can’t help but feel pity for them. They’re young, some younger than I was. They should not be holding a gun or wearing constricting gas masks or fleeing in terror from bombs. They should not be subjected to the horrors of war.

I had entered because I was naive. I might still be naive, but looking at the younger kids makes me feel sick. Although I do not think about the morality anymore, something in the back of my mind still murmurs about the injustice. Something in the back of my mind still is trying to reason with the universe about letting some of these children escape unscathed. 

But I know that isn’t going to happen. Karl and I haven’t even made it out of this hellhole and we’re already broken beyond repair. 

I miss my family. I miss my older brother. I miss Karl’s jokes and his smiles. I miss the time from before the war. Everything was just too bleak now. 

Would my older brother be proud of me right now?

-

**July 15, 1918**

We’re going to lose the war. I know this, deep in my bones. It’s just the truth now. Some of the younger recruits still have hope. They think that if we just try harder we can turn the tables. I know better.

This war has been going on for a long time. Sometimes I have a hard time remembering my family’s faces. That’s okay, though, I don’t know if they remember mine. 

I am twenty years old now. Karl would’ve been twenty-one. I miss Karl.

I can still feel his blood on my hands sometimes, can still vividly see the red on his clothes and on the ground. I hate war. I hate what it’s done to my country, to the world, to my friends and family.

I know that logically, if the war hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have met Karl. Karl would just be another stranger on the street. He would’ve meant nothing to me. But, at the same time, even if I didn’t know him, at least he would still be alive. He would be out there, shining like the bright flame he was, always burning, never dying out. 

I’ve seen so many people die. I’ve killed so many people. At this point, I’m just tired. I can’t even bring myself to care that we’re losing the war. 

What does it matter? My older brother might be dead, Karl’s dead, my left foot is nothing but a black stub at this point. It’s all meaningless. I will have killed so many people for nothing, taken so many lives for nothing. 

I’m honestly surprised I’m still alive. Earlier in the war it had been because I was fighting for something I believed in. I believed in my country, my brother, and that kept me going. Later, it was Karl. Karl and his rare smiles. Now, nothing.

I have nothing left to keep me going. Nothing to motivate me. At this point, I could just stand on No-Man’s Land and let myself be shot. It sounded so appealing, too. 

What else could I do? Keep fighting these battles knowing that my country wouldn’t be the one that comes out on top? Ruthlessly kill men so that we may win this one battle? It’s all so repetitive, really. 

It hurts to think that some of the soldiers on the other side were as young as some of the soldiers here. I thought I would be desensitized to it by now, but I guess I was wrong. They’re just so  _ young _ . Was I ever that young? Was I ever that stupid? I suppose so, I am here after all. 

There’s a young boy who reminded me of Karl, Jamie I think his name was. I wish he would’ve lasted longer, but his flame was snuffed out quickly. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and didn’t manage to dodge the small grenade. It could’ve been me, but instead it was young Jamie who was only fifteen. 

I wish this war would be over already. It will be, soon. I can only hope for peace afterwards.

I just want to see my brother again.


	4. more chaos and fire

Chaos was old. Actually, by god standards, he was quite young. He was part of the fourth generation of gods along with Luck, the youngest generation. He was born from War while Luck was born from Fate. His siblings, Mercy and Victory, were also born from War, but they were technically older than him. There was mercy and victory before there was chaos, and the same was true for the gods. 

But, according to humans and all living creatures, he was old. He wasn’t as old as time, as the expression went, but he was as old as the first living creature on the planet. Because as soon as there were animals, there was war. As soon as there was war, there was victory, mercy, and - most importantly to him - chaos. So no, he was not as old as time, Time is much older than he was and she was very kind, but he was very old. 

That meant he had seen a lot. He watched as the fish finally learned to live on land, he watched as the dinosaurs ruled supreme, he watched the ice ages, he watched as humans slowly evolved, he watched as the god of humanity became more powerful, he watched as great civilizations rose and fell, being there for every war, every power struggle, every battle, every fight. He was there for every political argument, for every murder, for every game, for every natural disaster. He was there to see the ups and downs, the rise and falls of societies. He watched it all, for he was there for all. 

Sometimes it grew tiring. Scratch that - it was always tiring. He might be the god of chaos, but watching as people tore themselves apart for something that wouldn’t even make it into the most obscure history book was exhausting to watch. And he had to watch it. He had to be there in every spout, in every small-time quarrel to every war. If not physically, at least spiritually. 

Before the humans, he could afford to take breaks. He could lay up in the sky, watching Stars tend to her light with grace, watching Moon and Sun talking lazily with Sky, watching Wind and Weather bicker like a pair of squabbling birds. He could afford to look down from the clouds and watch Animal scamper about, tending to her creations. He could afford to make the trip down to Sea’s palace and through the mountains to Winter’s house. 

But the humans came. The human came and wreaked such havoc that Chaos was denied a moment to relax, constantly in an endless cycle of being pulled from one place to the next. His home went unattended as he remained on the grounds of earth, as he remained trapped in the mortal plane. No longer could he afford to so much as greet passing gods, being jerked around like a puppet on strings. 

Fire accompanied him sometimes, as did Luck, but there were times when he was completely alone, helpless and unable to resist the pulls. Fire was kind to him throughout it all, a constant. They knew how he felt to be tugged along to places he didn’t wanna be, to never relax. There was always something burning in the world. He never told them quite what was dragging him down, but maybe they could tell. They always seemed to know him so well. 

Luck wanted to understand, Chaos could tell. Luck listened to him and nodded along, but Luck would never know. One might think Luck would have it worse than anyone, but Luck had the special ability to be there mentally and not physically. Everyone experienced Luck at the same time, he didn’t need to be there because of how omnipresent it was. His domain didn’t stretch him in different directions like it did with Fire and Chaos, simply being on earth was good enough. Luck was the only person he ever told about his struggles beside Animal. 

“I’m tired,” Chaos whispered on night, unheard by even the Origins. “I just want to sleep.”

Nobody answered. Chaos closed his eyes and when he opened them, he was in a different location, flames burning bright enough to hurt his eyes. A forest fire, it seemed. He instinctively looked for Fire, only to see them curled up above the flames, staring blankly at the destruction. Normally, Fire would feel energized and a little hysterical by a fire as big as this one, but right now they seemed tired. Just like he was. 

“Fire,” Chaos greeted, dipping his head in acknowledgement, a much more proper greeting than he usually did. It seemed Fire needed the boost that came with their status. They looked as miserable as the humans Chaos interacted with. 

“Chaos,” Fire greeted back, uncurling and looking at him curiously. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“This.” Fire gestured to all around them. “Being pulled in every direction, never staying in one place at a time. Abandoning your home for these pitiful humans.”

Chaos hummed, “as well as any other deity, I suppose.”

Fire laughed bitterly, a harsh sound. “Do not joke with me, Chaos. We both know it’s worse for us. No one else has it as bad as we do. Wind travels where she pleases, Creativity sits in her home and influences the humans by her own free will, Humanity looks down on his rats and smiles, safe up in his kingdom. You must hate it, do you not?”

“I cannot speak ill of Humanity,” Chaos answered carefully. Fire wilted slightly and opened their mouth before he cut them off. “But I do admit this is very...exhausting.”

“Sometimes I wish Life had not created them. Don’t you think Life made a mistake, too, Chaos? Don’t you think Light made a mistake creating Life?”

“Of course not!” Chaos protested before leaning in closer and lowering his voice. “Fire, you cannot speak of the Origins like that!” 

“Oh please, I know that,” Fire huffed. “But don’t you think about it? Don’t you think about it sometimes?” 

“I do not think about insulting Light, if that is what you’re asking, Fire,” Chaos said stiffly. 

“What about Humanity?” 

Chaos stilled.

“Don’t you think about it, friend?”

Chaos did think about it.

“Don’t you want him gone?”

Chaos did.

“Aren’t you tired?”

Chaos was.

“We cannot change Light or Life’s decisions,” Chaos answered quietly, looking away. 

“I suppose not,” Fire murmured, their voice softening. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, for asking you those questions. I should’ve known better. We should not question the Origins.”

“Just for safety,” Chaos reminded them. “We can think, they cannot take that away from us, we can think.” 

“They cannot take that away from us,” Fire echoed. “Thanks, Chaos.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Wanna take a nap?”

“I might have the time.”

Chaos closed his eyes as he leaned next to Fire. When he opened them, he was somewhere else.

As always.


	5. D&D

The castle towers over them, blocking out any light the moon might have provided. The stone was weathered and crumbling with age, a whole watchtower from the west side only a pile of stone bricks slumped onto the ground and slowly falling into the moat. The grass around the entrance was blackened as a vague memory of the fire that had left the castle in such disrepair and ruin, the wood ashy and chipped. Gargoyles sit on the bridge that connects the two front and biggest watchtowers, cackling forever in their frozen state. 

“Yeah, no, this isn't suspicious at all,” Frimelda says, crossing her arms. “This was a great job to take.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Garg replies, smiling when Frimelda scowls. He walks up to the lowered drawbridge cockily and scans the area. He seems to find nothing noteworthy because he turns back to the group with a raised eyebrow. “Are you all coming?”

“There is no way I’m going in there,” Oparin says. He moves behind Byren when Garg shoots him a look. As the youngest of the group and the shortest, they always took his opinion as more of a suggestion. His talking became background noise to them. Which really wasn’t fair, in his opinion, because Frimelda was the same age as him and Mira was only a couple inches taller. Of course, neither of them were rogues with a bad history of stealing, but what can you do? Still unfair to him. 

“You don’t get to choose,” Byren tells him. The paladin picks him up by the hood of his cloak and he yelps, clawing at the armoured hand. 

“We do need this money,” Seimei agrees, but he looks as hesitant as Oparin. “No matter how creepy this building is.”

“Creepy is putting it lightly!” Oparin snaps. “Now, put me down, giant!”

“Not my fault you’re three feet tall,” says Byren, dropping him abruptly. Oparin somehow manages to land on his feet, but that doesn’t make the insult hurt any less. The halfling makes a face but steps forward anyway. He has pride, thank you very much.

“Why are we here, again?” Mira asks, the bottle of firejuice from the tavern still loosely clutched in her hands. She never let it go, not once, on the journey here, and it was a three hour journey. The bottle was old and empty, though it had been old and full a while ago. 

“You seriously don’t know why we’re here? How drunk are you?” Frimelda asks incredulously. 

Mira holds up a hand in front of her face and squints. “I’m not drunk at all,” she announces, turning back to Frimelda who looks mildly impressed by her tolerance. Oparin, on the other hand, is not but chooses to hold his tongue because he doesn’t have a death wish. He’s seen her in action, he knows that she can kill practically anyone she wants. Not that she would, Mira is actually pretty chill and drunk most of the time (well, _drinking_ most of the time), but the threat is still there. He can still vividly remember how she attacked Frimelda during their first day knowing each other. It was brutal, more brutal than Narin and Byren beating him up for stealing some money and calling somebody a tool. 

“Typical.” Think of the devil and he shall appear. Narin steps out from the bushes and screws up his face, one hand resting protectively on his dog’s head and the other holding his crossbow. He clearly is not digging the vibe of the castle like Garg is. Garg seems to like everything that could potentially be dangerous, though. 

“We’re here because someone dropped something inside the castle while fooling around,” Byren explains patiently. 

“We’re here to get...a doll or something?” frowns Mira. “Seems a bit underwhelming, right?”

“The item they dropped is worth fifteen gold coins,” Byren says. 

“Holy moon, we should just steal the object! I’m sure Frimelda could get a good twenty gold out of some bargaining,” Oparin says. 

“You underestimate my power, little boy,” Frimelda smirks, ignoring Oparin’s sound of protest. “I could easily get twenty-five, maybe thirty out of something worth fifteen. Watch me.”

“We’re not doing that,” Narin cuts in, rolling his eyes. “Let’s just get the item and leave. Nature does not agree with this castle.”

“My conscience does not agree with this castle,” Seimei mutters.

“Thirty gold? That’s like-” Garg holds up a couple fingers and starts to mouth words as he counts. It takes him a while. “That’s like double the amount.”

“Is there a spell where you can transfer your drunkenness to someone else? Because, if so, I didn’t know that Mira knew magic,” Byren mutters to Semei. The half-elf shrugs. 

“I’m not drunk,” Garg loudly retorts, “I just don’t have the stomach for math.”

“You’ll throw up if you think about math?” Oparin asks. 

“What? No, that’s not what I meant,” Garg responds, looking equally confused. 

“It’s okay, Garg, we all do weird things sometimes. You don’t have to hide who you are,” Frimelda grins, sharp yet sweet. “We’ll all love you anyways.”

“Debatable,” says Narin. He shuts his mouth, though, when Frimelda glares at him. Oparin doesn’t exactly know what she’s doing but it sure is funny to watch. 

“What- whatever,” Garg huffs, “let’s just go in and get this over with.”

“Yes, let’s,” Byren agrees, shifting his grip on his tower shield, easily two times bigger than Oparin, and follows Garg. Seimei and Oparin check the stability of the drawbridge before the team heads over it. No one wants to drown in the moat that definitely has some sort of disease in it. 

The castle doors are large and dusty, the old red paint peeling off and no longer the brilliant bright red it had probably once been. The doors were also tall, most likely made for people bigger than normal and much bigger than Oparin. Even Narin, who is the tallest person in their little adventuring group, is shorter than the doors. 

Frimelda walks to the very front and places a hand on the left door. Her body shifts into a different creature, one much bigger than her usual changeling form. Her skin turns blue and rough, her ears get pointy and long, drooping slightly. Her nose turns red as her hands and feet grow. When the transformation finally finishes, she can easily be identified as a firbolg, standing at eight-foot-two. 

“Well,” she says, her voice sounding much deeper than normal. “These doors are still tall.”

It was true. Even though Frimelda now stood an impressive height, much bigger than anyone else, the doors still loom over her. They were maybe eighteen to twenty feet tall. 

“Who needs doors this big?” Frimelda complains as she goes back to normal, stepping back and letting Byren and Mira take her position. “This is ridiculous!” 

Mira, despite being not even four-foot tall, is the strongest out of all of them, Byren close behind. If anyone has a chance of opening the doors, it’s them. They carefully take position before placing their hands on the doors and pushing with all their might. The doors creak and strain before finally falling open. 

Byren leans over with his hands on his knees and pants, “man, is that a workout. How did that guy even get in here?”

“Maybe there’s a secret entrance or something,” Oparin suggests, walking inside with a hand hovering over one of his daggers. He’s learned his lesson with ambushes and surprise attacks, he knows how awful they are to deal with. He knows this because he does them. 

The inside is surprisingly clean and not as run-down as the outside. In fact, it looked recently cleaned. The hallway in front of them was covered with framed paintings and the rug wasn’t dusty or dirty at all. Their shoes echoed through the very tall corridor, bouncing off the ground and walls. Oparin constantly looked behind him, years of training telling himself to never let his unprotected back face anybody. 

Of course, this wasn’t here nor then and he could kind of trust these people. He didn’t need to look behind his back every time he turned a corner anymore, he didn’t need to spend restless nights wondering if tomorrow was the day he was picked up and thrown out of his almost-always temporary home, or even thrown in jail. He didn’t need to have his hand hovering over a dagger because his teammates would protect him if it came down to it. They wouldn’t stab him in the back...hopefully. 

Oparin frowns as they finally emerge into a big throne room, the throne sitting priced and pretty on top of a platform, the red velvet and yellow gold shining in the dim light. He idly thinks that hey, it might be midnight, so he looks to the open roof and sees that yep, it’s midnight and also _there’s an open roof_.

He quickly says his prayers, head bent down and hands clasped around his pendant, before looking back up at Chori and frowning. Why was the roof not there? More importantly, why was this room smaller than the others and shorter than the others? The roof didn’t look naturally misplaced, it was broken. It wasn’t an open-roof concept, the roof was destroyed. And, from looking at the stones and walls, it was broken from the inside. 

“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this,” Seimei whispers, closing his eyes and putting his face in his hands. “This is the worst, this is the worst, this is the worst.”

“Ignoring hot boy over there,” Garg says, “this ain’t so bad. You find the thing yet?”

“I feel it would be easier if we knew that ‘the thing’ was,” Frimelda replies, looking around the room curiously. “All we got is ‘expensive’ right now to describe it.”

“Something destroyed the roof from the inside,” Oparin points out, literally pointing to the destroyed roof. A stone brick falls from the wall as if to prove his point. 

“It’s a necklace,” Byren says. “That’s all the person said, sorry.”

“It’s better than nothing,” remarks Narin, although he still had that sour look on his face. Maybe Narin had eaten something gross at the tavern. Oparin wouldn’t know, he doesn’t pay attention to Narin half the time because Narin doesn’t speak half the time. 

“A necklace, gotcha,” Garg nods. “Should we split up?”

“If we split up, one of us is gonna end up dead,” Frimelda says, “and I am a-okay with that.”

“I am not,” Byren interrupts. “So we’ll go in pairs. Pick a partner. I’ll go with Narin.”

“I call Semei!” Garg practically screams, dragging the poor half-elf over to him. 

“I can go with Frimelda, I suppose,” Mira sighs. 

“Oh, this sucks,” Oparin shouts. “No way in Hell am I goin’ off on my own. Can I join one of your guys’s groups?”

“No way, shortstack,” Frimelda taunts. “Don’t be such a baby. You can handle yourself, right?”

“I hate all of you.”

“Love you, too, pipsqueak.” Frimelda takes to blowing kisses as they all walk away, Byren shooting him an apologetic look. He stands still in the empty throne room for a good couple of minutes before sighing and deciding to look around. They hadn’t actually checked around the throne room yet and since he was still in here, might as well. 

The room is big. It makes sense because it is a castle after all, but in Oparin’s opinion, there is no reason it should be this big. Sure, Chori may help those who help themselves, but that does not include being a tyrant king over other people. That’s putting your needs first while hurting other people, something Chori doesn’t find respectful. You can be selfish without hurting others. It’s a way of life and it’s the way he lives. He knows this because he helps people on the regular to help himself. He doesn’t have to hurt to do it.

It’s simple. You do the job, you help yourself by getting money from the grateful customer. Easy peasy. No fuss and no strings attached, you just do what you need to do and get the gold for it. He’s helping himself without hurting others. It’s perfect. 

As he gets closer to the throne, he’s able to recognize how small it is compared to the rest of the castle. It’s still big, sure, but not nearly as big as the doors or walls. It also looks slightly dirty. The fabric has obviously been cleaned recently, but not as recently as everything else and even then it looks unused. Someone has not sat on this throne for a long time. 

He peeks behind the throne and sighs when he sees nothing. He should've expected it, not every room has a hidden secret, but it’s a nice thought and the throne room is dreadfully boring. Just walls and carpet and the throne on the platform, nothing else. No decorations beside a half-burnt banner that he couldn’t possibly reach. 

The floor shakes beneath him and he stumbles, surprised. It felt like a controlled earthquake, quick and violent. He pulls himself upright just as another makes him tip over. His ankle gives out as yet another booms, making him fall onto his knees, still very confused. He quickly crawls behind the throne as he finally realizes what those earthquakes and loud noises are: footsteps. 

Something - or someone - giant is walking straight towards him, their footsteps alone making his world tumble badly. He sucks in a sharp, trembling breath and holds a hand over his mouth. Oparin nearly squeaks when one stomp makes his entire body jump. 

The footsteps finally stop, the last one not echoing as it had before and sounding closer - the thing had probably entered the throne room. He dares not peek out of his hiding spot from behind the throne to look at the creature. There is no way he is fighting this monster, not alone. The rest of the group probably heard it - how could they not? - and are rushing here as he thinks. They will help save him.

Because he’s not the heaviest hitter, he doesn’t do the most damage. He’s the person who sneak attacks the enemy, he’s the person who investigates and sleuths around. He’s smart and clever and he knows how to use it to his advantage. 

“Chori, protect me for, at this moment, I cannot protect myself,” he whispers, clutching his hands and bowing his head. He knows that logically the moon can’t see him from where he was hidden, but he wishes for her guidance anyways. “Chori, protect me for, at this moment, I cannot protect myself. Chori-”

He abruptly shuts up as a growl resonates through the room, losing some of its sound to the open sky. He carries on with his prayer, silently, in his head. _Chori, protect me for, at this moment, I cannot protect myself._

His nerves settled, he slinks out of the hiding place and crouches down so the platform the throne rests on blocks most of his body. His hair is black so it should blend into the walls behind him, for once his height helps. 

Stood at the front of the throne room in the doorway is a truly massive giant. He’s almost as tall as the arch, around sixteen feet tall. His clothes are tattered and dirtied, his face unnaturally bruised. What little hair he does have is greasy and hangs limp on his head. Scars litter his entire body, most prominent on his legs around his knees. He’s a giant, but he’s a battered one, too. 

When their eyes meet, though, Oparin can’t think of the abuse this poor creature probably went through, he can only think of how dark those eyes seem and how the confused expression very quickly morphs into one of rage. There was no way the giant had not seen him.

“Little one,” the giant says, his voice raspy and deep. “Little one, who do you think you are, coming here?”

It’s then that Oparin sees it, a golden and very fancy necklace around the giant’s neck, far too expensive for someone like him to own. 

“Th- that necklace,” mutters Oparin. “Is that the one we came for?”

The giant seems to hear him, though, and his expression only gets darker. “You dare imply that you came here to steal _my_ riches?”

“No!” Oparin yelps, jumping up and backing away before he can really think about it. “No, of course not! I was simply, uh, admiring it! It’s a very nice necklace...sir.”

“You lie, small one!” the giant roars, taking stomping steps toward him, slowly moving into a run. Oparin freezes for a second before diving out of the way. A foot crashes into the place he had just stood. Dread fills his stomach; if he hadn’t moved, he would’ve a halfling-splat on the ground. Being crushed by a bare foot is not the way he wants to go. 

He scrambles up and runs to the nearest hallway, hearing the furious yell behind him, but keeps running. There is a very angry giant running after him because he chose to _run_ his mouth. At this point, he shouldn’t even be surprised. 

His legs tremble underneath him, struggling to keep up with the fast pace. He wasn’t that used to running for long periods of time. He was built for stealth and quick sneak attacks, not running away from creatures that wanna kill him. His heart pounds in his chest and his breath comes out in pants. He can’t keep this up for long. 

If he remembers correctly, Byren and Narin came down this hallway. The two would certainly protect him and fight the giant. If only Frimelda was here, she could probably talk to the giant. But she went down the hallway to the left, not the right, and he was currently racing down the right hallway, trying to stay alive. 

He turns the corner, very aware of the earth-shaking monster behind him, and runs straight into Narin’s dog. The dog - which he never quite caught the name of - barks happily. It then pauses before growling and taking off in the opposite direction. He frowns as he leans over, trying to catch his breath. Did the dog want him to follow him?

“Little one!” the giant screams in frustration. Well, that decides it for him. He takes in one last long breath before darting after the dog, hoping it's not trying to kill him. 

The dog leads him further into the castle through turning and twisting halls and he vaguely wonders how far Byren and Narin got while he was exploring the same room. He dares to look back behind him and thankfully sees nothing. Then he runs into a fully-armoured chest.

Oparin squeaks and falls flat on his butt, rubbing his forehead from where it collided. In front of him stands a very confused Byren and Narin, the latter holding his dog’s collar. He’s still hyperventilating; he’s still panicking. The fear courses through his veins, making his heart race. The dog whines in Narin’s grip, sensing how close he is to falling off the edge. 

“Oparin?” Byren asks carefully, crouching down. Oparin had shifted from rubbing his forehead to gripping his hair tightly, willing the tears in his eyes away. Chori, he was only seventeen. He shouldn’t be this scared. Right?

“I found the necklace,” he says, his voice slightly strained. He’s trying desperately to keep it together. “Bad news: there is now a giant after me. A very murderous giant.”

“How in the world did you manage to piss off a giant?” Narins asks, sounding exasperated. It grates into his skull and he subconsciously shrinks back in shame. Byren sees this and shifts in front of him, blocking his view of Narin. 

“I said something about the stolen necklace and he got mad. He looks really beat-up, too. I dunno what happened to him,” replied Oparin. 

“We need to find the others.” Byren looks back at Narin with a serious expression. He turns back to Oparin, “how far away is the giant? Were those bangs we heard earlier from him?”

Oparin nods fast, “yeah, they were. He stomps a lot. Tried to step on me. And I don’t know, I was focused on running away. Should I have stayed? Did I make a mistake?”

“You’re fine, Oparin,” Narins tells him, patting his shoulder before hauling him to his feet. “You did fine. We need to go now, though. Are you good to run a little more?”

“I don’t see why not,” Oparin answers. He had his moment of panic but now he needs to focus. He was with friends now, they would protect him if anything went wrong. He wasn’t alone anymore. It was always easier to face monsters when somebody else was with him, not that the group needed to know he enjoyed their company. It would only go to their heads. 

“Good.” Narin pulls his hands away. “We need to find everybody else.”

“Especially Frimelda,” Byren agrees, “she might be able to talk the giant down from his anger. Oparin, is it sentient? Can it think for itself?”

“Yes, he is. He’s a giant, after all. Aren’t all giants sentient?”

“Not all,” Narin whispers darkly. Oparin chooses to ignore the implications of that and focuses on Byren who’s taken out his sword. His shield remains on his back, probably because it’d be hell to run with while in his hands. 

Before Byren can walk by, though, Oparin snags one of his hands. Byren frowns and looks at him questioningly and it takes a moment for Oparin to force the words out of his throat. 

“T-the giant - he’s hurt,” Oparin stammers. “He might just be scared. Or confused. Or-or something. I don’t think he’s in the right headspace.”

“He tried to kill you,” Narin points out with a raised eyebrow. “‘Right headspace’ is an understatement.”

Oparin ignores the ranger, “we should just avoid him until we find Frimelda. No need to fight. We don’t even know how strong he is! What if he’s crazy strong? We should wait for backup.”

“He tried to turn you into sidewalk paste,” Byren says dryly but nods anyway, a silent acknowledgement. For once, they were listening to him. For once, they were taking his point into consideration. He sighed in relief. 

All four of them, including the dog, flinched when the ground shook slightly, a shout echoing through the entire palace. Before they could move, the shout was followed shortly by a high-pitched scream. Not of pain, but of fear. _Frimelda?_

Byren takes off before Narin could even say anything and the two follow him closely behind. It’s hard to keep up with the two people who are two times taller than him, but he manages, sprinting alongside them towards the source of the scream. Ducking and weaving through long corridors, ignoring rooms with open doors inviting them to explore, jumping over an obvious tripwire. Someone put a lot of effort into making this ruined castle hostile to outsiders and they finally figured out who. Or maybe they didn’t, this craftsmanship seemed far too detailed for a giant of his mood to make, especially the finer details and ropes. 

As Oparin looks at the paintings they rush past, he comes to a very obvious conclusion: this place, while being built possibly for giants, was not friendly towards giants. So what was the giant doing here and where did the necklace fit in? 

In a great big room, smaller than the throne room but certainly bigger than the already wide halls, was a group. Frimelda was huddled in a corner along with Seimei and Garg, Mira stood in front of them with a furious expression. The giant was in front of Mira, holding an arm which had blood steadily dripping from a cover wound, his expression as equally mad. Mira’s mouth was pulled back in a snarl, her nose bleeding. The dinner table, which should’ve extended down the entire room, was broken in half, the pieces being shoved off to a corner.

There had very obviously been a fight. 

“Hey nasty!” Oparin calls out impulsively. The giant whips around. “Yeah, remember me?”

“Little one brought back more friends,” the giant growls. “Delightful.”

Narin and Byren slowly inch their way towards the rest of the group, hands on their weapons, but there wasn’t any need. The giant was now focused solely on Oparin, even lowering his hand to show off the deep gash in the side of his arm. Oparin held back a wince. 

“You’re the one who attacked me in the first place.” Oparin rolls his eyes, pulling out his daggers and shifting his feet. His stance is now one that Byren had shown him; one of a fighter. The paladin was always teaching him how to fight head-to-head in case the situation ever called for it.

“You invaded my home,” the giant responds. “And try to steal my riches.” 

“I didn’t try to steal anything, you just assumed,” Oparin retorts, even as he dodges a punch that gets thrown his way. He rolls away as a fist smacks into the ground next to him. “Plus, this place belongs to no one. It’s abandoned. _And_ you’re the one who stole that necklace from someone else.”

“This necklace is mine. The woman who left it here was a terrible creature. I bet you sympathize with her, you human.” The giant’s face was screwed up in disgust as he took a step back, choosing to stop fighting and instead talk, even though the vile words he spat were as good as a sword through the stomach. 

“What? I’m not human,” says Oparin. “All of us aren’t.”

Byren coughs.

“Most of us,” Oparin amends. “We’re just doing our job. You’re gonna attack us for that? We need this gold to live.”

Frimelda steps forward and Oparin naturally slips to the back of the group after subtly walking in their direction. The giant didn’t even notice. Frimelda was much better at talking and persuading than he was, having spells to trick another’s reality. Not that a good couple of words couldn’t do that, it was just a failsafe apparently. He knew nothing about magic so he couldn’t tell. 

“This is my home, this necklace is now mine,” the giant repeats, sounding more desperate. 

“Why do you want it so badly?” Frimelda asks casually, like she was talking to one of them. Oparin feels compelled to reply but bites his tongue instead. So, she was going the spell route. 

“Because she was terrible.”

“What did she do?”

The giant looked confused. “What?”

“I’m asking what she did to make you hate her.”

“You care?”

“Of course!” Frimelda looks offended on behalf of the giant. It always surprises Oparin how good at this she was considering she was normally a garbage person. 

“She’s the daughter of the people who used to rule this castle. She’s human.”

“And you have something against the old rulers?”

“We all do!” the giant shouted. “We all...did.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“My family.”

“And where’s your family?” asks Frimelda, her voice impossibly soft. She’s taken several steps forward, so close she could touch the giant if she wanted to. An invisible weight has been lifted off Oparin’s shoulders. They were getting somewhere. 

“Gone. The humans killed them all when we rebelled.”

“Rebelled?”

“Against the old rulers,” the giant explains. “We were their workforce, but we hated it. So one day we fought back. I’m the only one left. The humans took everything from me: my home, my freedom, my family.” The giant looks over at Byren. “Now I want to take everything from them.”

“That explains the roof in the throne room,” Oparin mutters to himself. The roof was broken because it was low, low enough to inconvenience the giants that had been trapped here by cruel humans. Destroying the roof was the ultimate show of rebellion besides the fighting itself. They were refusing to bow to the rulers anymore. 

“I’m sorry that that happened to you,” Frimelda says gently, “but not all humans are bad. And I’m not saying those humans were good, they were certainly evil, but you cannot torment anything that happens to pass through this castle.”

“And we need that necklace,” Garg says. Frimelda shoots him a venomous glare and he shuts his mouth. “Right, nevermind. We don’t need that necklace.”

“What’s your name?” Frimelda picks right back up where she left off, her voice just as soft. 

“Fregar,” the giant nods, looking thoroughly calm. Oparin can almost forget how he tried to kill him. Almost. 

“Well, Fregar, we _do_ need that necklace. If we return without it, that horrible woman will send more people to take it from you. More bad humans.”

Fregar hesitates, hand wrapping protectively around the jewel of the necklace, “but I like it.”

“I know you do,” says Oparin cautiously. He meets Fregar’s eyes, but the earlier hostility is gone, replaced with very open worry. “We can get you something else, though.” Fregar’s eyes dart down to the pendant around Oparin’s neck and Oparin quickly steps back and shakes his head. “Not that, though, my pendant is special to me.”

“I think I might have something,” Narin says as he reaches into his bag. He fishes around in there before pulling out a bracelet made of colourful flowers. Fregar looks to be in awe. “I was planning on using this elsewhere, but you could use it better. Don’t worry, magic makes the flowers never wilt.”

“I’ve never seen magic before,” Fregar admits. 

“Magic is beautiful,” Narin smiles warmly. “It will keep these flowers healthy for all of eternity.” 

The ranger puts the bracelet around the giant’s offered wrist and Fregar, seemingly happy with the trade, takes off the necklace and puts it in Frimelda’s hands. 

“No one will bother you now,” Frimelda promises. “You can live in peace.” 

Fregar smiles back at the group before slumping, the persuasion magic taking a toll on his brain and making him tired. The giant walks away a little dizzily, until he rounds the corner and vanishes from view. His footsteps shake the castle until they peter out and the team is left alone once more. Frimelda slumps to the floor, holding a hand over her eyes. 

“Sheesh, that sucked,” she says, her voice going from that gentle tone right back to normal. “It was like talking to a child. I hate children.”

“You’re as old as me,” Oparin points out. 

“Silence, child,” Frimelda snaps. Everyone laughs, including Oparin. 

“Let’s just get out of here,” Seimei says. “I’m tired of this place. I don’t wanna know what’ll happen once that giant is out of the spell.”

“Probably nothing, the magic I used just gradually fades away. He might hate humans again, but I doubt he’ll be violent enough to attack travelers anymore,” Frimelda shrugs. 

“Anyone wanna talk about how Garg screamed like a girl?” Mira asks with a smirk. 

“Wait, that scream was _Garg_?” Byren starts laughing harder. “We thought that was Frimelda!”

Frimelda scoffs, “as if!”

Garg’s face burns red with embarrassment and Oparin’s heart seems to finally stop racing, his panic smoothing out. It felt like he had been teetering the entire time. But now, it was officially over, just as everyone else had said. The giant was happy, they got the necklace back, and they had a human’s butt to go kick for abuse. Most of all, though, Oparin was happy to finally be leaving the castle. 

By the time they reached the front grass patch where they had started, the sun was rising. It was the start of a new day. Onto a new job, a new mission, a new adventure. 


End file.
